


The End of The World (At Least It Feels That Way)

by flipflop_diva



Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 05:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5117276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipflop_diva/pseuds/flipflop_diva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grief has a way of putting things into perspective. Set after the Season 2 finale of Chicago Fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of The World (At Least It Feels That Way)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [csichick_2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csichick_2/gifts).



He’s called her an hour ago, and he knows she’s on her way, but every second without her feels like a lifetime right now.

He’s sitting alone at the bar at Molly’s. By all accounts, Molly’s isn’t even open right now and he shouldn’t be here at all, but he can’t go home and he can’t stay at the hospital and the firehouse is much too intrusive because he just needs to be alone so he can pretend none of this is happening, so he had looked at Gabby and pleaded with her with his eyes and she was too upset and too worried about other things to argue much, so she handed him the key and told him that if she found even one bottle out of place in the morning that she would skin him alive, and he knows it’s true.

So he sits at the bar at Molly’s with plans to take a shot from each and every bottle in there until he’s too numb to feel anything and too far gone to worry anymore, because it’s been seventy-two horribly fucking long hours and he just needs Shay to wake up and tell him it’s all going to be okay, that _she_ is going to be okay. That’s all he needs, but he can’t have that because a damn pole hit her in the head and now no one knows what is going to happen, so he pours his first three shots and downs them before he can think about it too much.

He doesn’t hear the door open and he doesn’t hear her slip in and it’s not until she actually takes the seat next to him and puts her folded hands on the bar that he realizes she is there, and he finds himself thinking that this must be why she’s such an amazing detective if she can sneak up on people like this without making a sound.

He doesn’t look at her and she doesn’t look at him, but he takes his fourth shot and passes one he hasn’t drank yet over to her and watches from the corner of his eye as she swallows it in one gulp, and his respect for her goes up even more than it just did by her sneaky entrance because a woman who can drink always gets him.

They do one more shots and she doesn’t seem phased at all by any of it, but he is the one who can’t stand the silence suddenly, even if he came here for the silence, so he speaks first, still not looking at her.

“Thank you for coming.”

“You know I always will.”

Severide nods like he understands, even if he isn’t sure he does. Because he’s not really sure what he and Erin have and if they can even call this a relationship. He knows he likes her and he knows she likes him and he knows they are there for each other. He shows up when he knows she needs him, and she shows up when she knows he needs her, and they both pretend like they don’t need anything, but they have sex and then they lie together and he holds her in his arms when she’s had a rough day and she doesn’t let him get up when he’s had a rough day and in the morning they kiss and go their separate ways. They don’t talk about it or analyze it. It just is what it appears to be, but it works, and that is what he thinks as he takes his sixth shot and she takes her third and he feels a strange warmth in his chest from knowing she is next to him.

She pours the next set of shots — they are on to the cheap brand of vodka now — and she hands him the glass and doesn’t say anything about him maybe needing to slow down or take it easy, and he’s grateful for that because it’s the last thing he needs, even if it’s true, and she also doesn’t ask how Shay is or if the doctors are hopeful or if he’s planning to go back to work because she knows him enough to know that none of that matters right now and words can’t change anything anyway.

He leans his head back and pours the liquid straight down his throat and savors the way it burns because at least he’s feeling something that’s not pain and anguish, and when he’s done, he turns his head to look at her fully for the first time since she snuck in, and he’s surprised to find she’s looking straight back at him. She reaches out and places a hand on his cheek, and her touch is soft and warm and matches the expression in her eyes, and he can’t help it. He’s leaning forward and his hands are gripping her arms and his lips are pressing into hers as hard as he can, but she’s not resisting and she’s not trying to push away and in fact he feels her respond so he keeps going.

And again he thinks that this is so fitting for how their relationship is — nothing expected, nothing demanded, everything just given and taken as the moment requires — and he finds himself thinking that maybe it’s time she meet Shay because Shay would really like her, but the thought of Shay sends a lump into his throat and he can’t have that, so he kisses Lindsay harder and lets go of her arms so he can get a handle on the buttons of her shirt. 

If Lindsay is opposed to having sex in a not-really-open bar, she doesn’t say so out loud and Severide can’t really tell because she is pulling off his clothes almost as fast as he is pulling off hers and then they are a mess of tangled limbs and panting breaths and sweat-covered bodies on the floor and he thinks if Gabby ever hears about this that she will murder him but he really doesn’t care because _this_ is what he needs and Lindsay is what he needs and he loses himself in her because it’s here and now and it feels good and he needs to feel good.

They are still lying on the floor, him on top of her, foreheads touching as they regain their breath when he hears his phone buzz, and he doesn’t want to look because he doesn’t want to know but his hand is moving toward the device before his brain can tell it not to and then his eyes are scanning the words that seem to be screaming at him and his heart is in his mouth and his lungs aren’t getting enough air and he has to hand the phone to Lindsay because he thinks he is going crazy. She reads the words and he watches her read and his heart breaks as her eyes seem to dim and he knows — he _knows_ — exactly what is coming next.

•••

Shay’s funeral is held on an entirely too bright Saturday morning. He doesn’t want to go. Part of him wants to be that little boy again who could just hide in bed with the covers over his head and pretend the world doesn’t exist. Another part of him wants to stumble into the kitchen, pick up the entire bottle of vodka and drink until none of this even matters any more.

Because, really, what does any of this matter? What is the purpose of any of it? They can save countless people, but when it comes to the one person who does matter, all they can do is watch her die in front of them.

The thought makes Kelly pick up the empty glass of scotch from the night before and send it hurling across the room, cracking the glass of the mirror and leaving streaks of clear liquid running down the walls.

None of it makes him feel better.

Ten minutes later, he is sitting in the kitchen, a bottle of vodka and a bottle of whiskey in hand, staring at them both, when the door seems to fly open of its own accord. She’s standing there — not Shay, but the only other woman who seems to hold his heart — in a simple black dress, hair pulled back. She doesn’t roll her eyes at him or shake her head, though he thinks she probably wants to. Instead she reaches out a hand for him and says softly, “Let’s go. You know you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Part of him — the mad, angry bitter part of him — wants to say he’ll deal with that later and so be it, but another part — the scared, hurt, lonely part — knows she’s right, so he stretches his own hand out, meets hers, lets her wrap her fingers around him, lets him feel how warm and soft she is, and then lets her pull him out into the world.

He doesn’t want to say goodbye to his best friend, he doesn’t want to say goodbye to the woman he thought would be there every day of his life, but he goes to Shay’s funeral anyway. He holds Erin’s hand the entire time and focuses on the birds up in the trees. His thoughts are too distracted, too disjointed, to take in what the preacher is saying, but he can hear all the sniffles and choked sobs from around him and it makes him want to scream — “You didn’t know her like I did!” — but he knows he can’t own grief so instead he stands there and tries to breath and not break down and he holds on to Erin like she is a life line. 

Maybe, today, she is.

They go to Molly’s afterward. It’s the first time he’s been back since he was there with Erin. There will be no drunken sex on the floor today, but Erin squeezes his hand as they walk in and thinks maybe there can be some comfort later.

It’s a somber affair, although the guys try to attempt some humor, attempt to lighten the mood, but Kelly is pretty sure he is never going to laugh or smile again and finally he can’t take it anymore. He stands up suddenly and stalks to the door. He wants to run, far, far away from Chicago and all the memories. He sees Shay everywhere and he just isn’t sure he can do this.

He says that to Erin the second she is by his side. “I’m not sure I can do this anymore.”

She nods at him thoughtfully. “How much of _this_ ” — she gestures around them and he knows she understands what he means — “can’t you do?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. All of it.”

He’s been thinking about it ever since they got the call. About how people think he should just go back to 51 next week. How he should just walk in the door and put on his uniform and go about his business like it’s normal and everything is fine. But nothing is fine and he isn’t fine and the firehouse that used to feel like home is now a place he dreads. How can he go in there, where he will see her face everywhere, where he will feel her presence in every detail, and pretend that he is fine and all is well?

He doesn’t think he can do that. He’s beginning to think he doesn’t _want_ to do that.

Beside him, Erin again slips her fingers in between his. 

“I have an idea,” she says, and the way she says it sounds like salvation.

•••

She takes him to a house far, far outside of Chicago. It’s surrounded by trees and the nearest neighbors are half a mile away. They might as well be in another country for the way it feels compared to the rush of the city.

It’s perfect.

He smiles at her when he sees it and feels a little like he can finally breath for the first time in a week.

“You can stay as long as you need,” she says.

“And you?” he asks. “Are you staying too?”

Those fingers of his find their way into his hair, her lips find their way to his.

“As long as you need.”


End file.
